


Yours, Steve

by orphan_account



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Bucky Barnes Has PTSD, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Hurt/Comfort, Intrusive Thoughts, M/M, Natasha is awesome but we already knew that, Panic Attacks, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, References to Depression, Steve Rogers Needs a Hug, like really, they age reeeeaaaally slowly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-15
Updated: 2019-08-15
Packaged: 2020-09-01 02:44:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,506
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20250877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: “I’ve been writing a lot lately, y’know? Sam told me it’d do me good.”“Oh yeah? What do you write about?”Steve shrugs, suddenly self-conscious. “Stuff about him. How I feel. Stuff that I feel would help him remember, if he ever read them. It’s... weird. They’re letters, you know? Letters for him. Even though I know he’ll never read them.”“Well,” Nat says. There’s a determined glint in her eyes. “Do you want him to?”Steve blinks, dumbfounded. A smile slowly creeps across his lips.(In which Civil War never happens and Bucky makes a life for himself in Bucharest, tries to heal on his own.Steve waits for him, and writes.)





	Yours, Steve

**Author's Note:**

> This is mostly based in the movies but there's a little reference to Captain America: Man Out Of Time; specifically the part where Steve here mentions that Bucky wanted to see the Grand Canyon. Aside from that detail everything goes according to the MCU.
> 
> Enjoy!

The asset freaks out after rescuing his target from the Potomac.

He makes sure he’s breathing, he doesn’t know why. He thinks _‘asthma’_, and the word is so random and unrelated to the situation that he doesn’t know what to make of it. 

_The target is breathing. The target will be okay._ The asset’s hands are shaking uncontrollably for he feels the need to make sure this man is alright, whoever he is; and the intensity of the feeling scares him.

He’s not supposed to feel this way. He’s not supposed to feel at all.

_There’s a small room with not much in it. It’s cold and he finds himself sitting on a chair, lids heavy and eyes stingy from crying. He’s never really thought about religion, but there’s a rosary in his hands._

_There’s a bed next to him. In the bed rests a blond little man hidden under two thin blankets, the only ones they have. It’s not enough and the asset knows it. The blond man is shivering._

_The asset nods off in exhaustion. The rosary falls to the ground and he snaps his head back, only to notice a pair of glazed blue eyes staring at him._

_“Steve?”_

_“Hey, jerk,” Steve croaks weakly. The asset’s eyes instantly fill with fresh new tears and he throws himself at his friend’s chest. This time — he really feared he wouldn’t make it through the night._

_Steve coughs wetly. The asset gets up and touches his forehead — he’s still feverish, but it’s definitely not as bad as before. It’s finally breaking and the asset feels like he can breathe again._

_Steve’s eyelids drop involuntarily at the cool touch. He’s drifting back to sleep and the asset feels terrified that someday he just won’t wake up again._

_“Stevie, please don’t,” the asset begs. He knows he’s being selfish, knows he’s probably exaggerating because the worst part is over already, but he can’t help himself. It’s been a rough night. “Stevie...”_

_“Five more minutes,” Steve says. Before the asset can protest, he’s already fallen asleep again._

There’s a late crash somewhere in the background and the asset snaps out of it with a start. He’s not supposed to be distracted like that, but nothing makes sense anymore. Debris keeps falling and making a mess and the asset thinks _‘war’_.

_Which war?_

_There’s always a war._

There’s always a war — and there’s always a little guy from Brooklyn, too stupid and rash and all too willing to fight it.

But… isn’t there someone always willing to protect him, too?

_Your name is James Buchanan Barnes._

The asset’s eyes sting. There’s wetness in his cheeks and he’s sure it’s not from the river. It scares him to the core, how is he supposed to fight like this if he needs to? How is he supposed to shoot?

What the hell is he supposed to say when they debrief him?

He looks at the man he saved. He’s pretty battered overall but the asset knows that his face in particular will be what haunts him until they wipe him, and realization hits him like a brick in the face. This is Stevie, that little blond man who shivered under the thin blankets in the winter. That little guy he’s rescued a million times before from bullies and he can’t believe he’s become one of _them_. He could’ve kill him, he wanted to destroy him. There was a time when he used to cure his wounds.

Now he’d broken his bones and made him bleed.

He could’ve killed him. Would’ve.

He wanted to do it.

A whimper escapes his lips. This is Steve.

The asset curls in a ball, feeling dizzy and disoriented — this is not good, his head is swimming, and despite being in open air he feels like the space is closing around him. His heart beats loudly in his ears, there are dots in his vision and he can’t _breathe_.

He feels like he’s going to die.

The man —Steve— stars coughing restlessly, and the asset flinches. He picks himself up with uncharacteristic unsteadiness and he flees into the woods before Steve wakes up or they find him, whatever comes first.

* * *

He lets himself drop to the ground when he’s deep into the forest and tries not to think. This hell is temporary — his system’s failing. He needs a wipe.

The asset goes pretty still and does what he’s good at: waiting. They’ll find him, somehow. They always do.

_(Except this time, they don’t)._

The asset has another breakdown when he realizes he needs to move. He needs to eat and find a safe place. Even he can’t be waiting forever. He has needs too, and he has to be strong for when his handlers find him. So he goes out of the woods until he finds a lonely road; then waits some more until a poor soul appears and steals his car and clothes.

He lets him live, though. He doesn’t know why.

He heads for the city.

* * *

He tracks the target. It’s easy.

He visits a hospital room.

* * *

Sam Wilson leaves earlier that night.

Steve’s injuries are still bad after a few days since falling into the Potomac, despite the serum. He sleeps and sleeps and sleeps, and doctors say it’s normal — he’s healing.

Steve’s mind is hazy with enough medication to put an elephant to sleep; and so he does — and the dreams are vivid and wild and nonsensical, but the one that strikes him the most is one where he opens his eyes, wakes up for a little while and notices a figure in a corner of a room — he knows that silhouette all too well.

“Bucky?” he calls, his voice barely inaudible. The figure approaches him, like a vampire that has been invited to come close.

It is Bucky. He’s dressed casually and he looks at Steve under a baseball cap. He looks confused, and Steve knows it’s a dream because there’s no way the Winter Soldier has red rimmed eyes like he’s been crying. But _‘Bucky,’_ he calls again, and something shifts in the man’s gaze. Steve feels a cool touch that makes him shiver and it reminds him of all those nights he trembled with fever in his weak little body and with Bucky by his side.

Suddenly the hand —all metal— curls around his neck. He opens his eyes: there’s something dark in the man staring down at him, but he doesn’t apply pressure. Steve’s eyelids are heavy again and he lets them drop. 

“Bucky,” he mouths, soundless, drifting away. The last thing he registers is that the hand is gone and something bumps his forehead, and he falls asleep remembering how Bucky used to do that when he got very sick — stick their foreheads together until Steve stopped shivering and fell asleep.

Sam arrives first thing in the morning to check on him. Steve’s feeling a little better today, but still drowsy. Sam asks him if he was hot the day before and Steve doesn’t know where that question is coming from until Sam points to the window. 

It’s wide open.

“I didn’t do that. Did you ask a nurse?”

Steve’s stomach turns at the realization.

_Could it be…?_

He decides to play dumb and blame it on the medication.

“Ahh, yeah, I’d forgotten about it,” he lies badly. But at least for now it’ll have to do.

It does. Sam asks no further questions.

* * *

The asset has started remembering more and more often.

There hasn’t been any information from his handlers so he’s assumed they’re dead. It sounds easy, but it’s cost him a few nervous breakdowns for he’s never known what to do when he’s not expecting orders.

He’s getting used to it, though. He decides to stay in a shitty hotel in the outskirts of the city. It’s not a nice area, but at least no one asks questions there. The first days are the weirdest: he stays in his room most of the day, plagued by visions and memories he doesn’t know if they’re his, if they’re real.

One night after grabbing dinner, he passes by a vandalized wall. In the wall there’s a poster of Captain America, all regal and proper and patriotic. By his side there’s information about a Smithsonian exhibit about the man’s life. There’s another message written in horrible, sloppy black graffiti letters that stain the Captain’s face.

It says _‘FUCK WAR.’_

The asset doesn’t know why his blood boils at the message in the wall, but it does. He ignores it though — it’s not relevant to the mission.

He buys a notebook and visits the Smithsonian the next day, first thing in the morning.

* * *

There are are flyers about Captain America at the entrance of the exhibit. The asset —Bucky? He no longer knows what to think of himself— takes one and keeps it in his notebook. The cover is a picture of the Captain. He’ll cut it and paste it later at the beginning of the journal, he thinks.

He’s convinced now —he needs to remember, and Captain America seems to be a quintessential part of who he was, or _is?_

Whatever.

* * *

He finishes the exhibit with a knot in his stomach, his mind a mess and a heartache he can’t bring himself to explain.

In his journal now rests the picture of Captain America —_Stevie_— from the flyer. In the next pages, he’s written passages of what he’s seen at the museum.

_“Best friends since childhood, Bucky Barnes and Steven Rogers were inseparable in both schoolyard and battlefield. Barnes is the only Howling Commando to give his life in service of this country.”_

He finds out that going to the Smithsonian has helped him remember more things. Random fragments, at most, but it’s a start, so he writes about them too. He writes about the war, he writes about the Howling Commandos. He writes about how Steve’s hair looked in the morning after an illness. Writes about a table and a burning sensation—

He writes about falling from a train.

He decides that night that he’ll start calling himself ‘Bucky’ again.

* * *

He visits Brooklyn the next day. Wanders around — everything’s different, whatever that's supposed to mean. He stops in front of a building of apartments he remembers much different. They’re nicer and cleaner. There’s a plaque in a corner that commemorates that Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes, war heroes, used to live there.

He remembers hot summer days and two kids running in the streets until one of them could barely breathe. He remembers the days where he’d have to carry a pissed off blond boy because he was either too beaten up or too weak from sickness to stand up on his own. He remembers a little girl that sometimes joined them to play, who called him big brother. He remembers two ladies, a blonde one and a brunette, talking in the kitchen, making lunch. Then it was just one of them.

He remembers a big man ruffling his hair every time he arrived from his job.

Bucky’s so caught up on the little fragments of life that it takes him a while to notice that someone is staring at him.

Instinct kicks in and he looks in the direction of the stranger, only to realize it was no stranger at all.

It’s Steve.

They stare at each other for a while, frozen in place; until a group of girls realize it’s Captain America who’s standing there like an idiot. They ask him for an autograph.

When Steve looks up again, Bucky has disappeared.

* * *

Some days he feels like he’s just been wired wrong.

He should’ve seen it coming, he guesses. Despite the confusion and initial shock, he’s got to admit that remembering the good stuff it’s been kind of sweet. That was, until the bad stuff started coming back at him as well.

It’s the fourth day in a row since he can’t close his eyes without seeing blood, without hearing bones breaking and necks snapping and the indescribable gurgle someone makes when they are being choked to death. 

It’s also not helping that sometimes he thinks that could’ve been Steve, too.

He’s starting to look more and more deranged — even the people at the shitty hotel have started to look at him in fear.

_(And they should fear. He’s murderous.)_

Sometimes he drifts off for a few minutes. Then he snaps out of it and wakes up yelling in Russian.

Sometimes he forgets the year or the place.

Sometimes the panic is too much. He has no mission, or so he thinks. What if they are waiting for him to go back? What if the longer he’s taking, the worse the punishment will be?

What if they know where he is, what if they’re watching him?

_Cut off one head…_

Sometimes when he’s eating he thinks about what the insides of a person look like. Sometimes when he closes his eyes for a second he’s afraid that he’ll let go and his body will act on his own like it used to when they programmed him, and kill everyone around.

_Sometimes he thinks of blond hair…_

Sometimes he thinks he’s more or less okay, feels more like Bucky Barnes and less like the asset. That is until someone talks to him, asks him the hour or maybe it’s the pretty waitress asking him what he’ll have for dinner, and his brain just short-circuits and he thinks of these people exploding, their guts flying all over the place. 

He’s losing it, isn’t he?

_The mission…_

He thinks there’s only one way to put an end to this. Only one way to quench the thirst for blood and make them pay for what they’ve done to him.

_Cut off all heads._

It’s easy not to sleep when you’ve got a reason like that. He must track them all down — there’s no time to lose.

He leaves the States as soon as he finishes, after a few weeks.

* * *

Natasha hands him the file and warns him not to go looking, even if she knows he’ll do it anyway.

What Steve does not know, is that she knows they won’t find him. She knows too much about brainwashing, knows too much about overcoming it, and knows too much about the Winter Soldier. 

James Barnes won’t let himself be found unless he wants to. And she knows he doesn’t want to.

She also knows that Steve is way too stubborn for his own good. But she hopes that being with Sam, who is more level-headed, will help him overcome this obsession of his. She hopes that after a while of looking and finding nothing but dead ends, they’ll give it up, call it a lost cause. That working with the Avengers on other missions will distract Steve enough. Meanwhile, she keeps getting intel from her contacts — Hydra facilities are being destroyed with great brutality. She knows who’s doing it, and she knows why he’s doing it. Had she not been saved by Clint, she’d probably done the same.

It might not be fair, but she’s doing it because she cares for Steve. The Winter Soldier is way too unstable and Steve’s no better. Plus, she fears that if they meet again, Steve might end up dead for good. You can’t trust the programming — James might have broken it once, but there’s no way to know if he’ll be able to do it again.

So she lets a few weeks pass, until she realizes that Steve’s becoming a shell of what he used to be.

He’s completely off the rails. Exhausts himself looking for Bucky, can’t talk about anything else. Even the Avengers start thinking it twice before asking for his help in other missions, since it’s clear that he’s losing focus, and an unfocused soldier is no good. He doesn’t eat, sleeps too little and when he does, he has nightmares almost every night. And Natasha fears that maybe this is more dangerous. That Steve will destroy himself before he can even find Bucky.

It kills her to think about that. After all, Steve’s always had a suicidal streak, hasn’t he?

How come she didn’t think of this before?

So she tells him before it’s too late. Steve’s expression is unreadable as she does, except for his set jaw. Aside from that, his eyes are colder than she’s ever seen. She thinks she screwed up for good this time. He had finally started to trust her and he’s one of her very few friends despite their differences. She tries to make amends with him, saying she could track the Winter Soldier down and they could all go together, Sam, Steve, and her.

She’s surprised when he says that he doesn’t want to.

“I’ve been thinking a lot,” he finally explains, “and I know that I’ve fucked up, too. I’ve neglected my responsibilities, my friends, and myself,” Steve admits guiltily. “And I can’t do this forever. Don’t get me wrong — I wish I could. I would. But Bucky — he’s been through a lot. I want to see him and tell him it’s okay, he can come back. But he knows where I am, right? He can come find me, if that’s what he wants. Which means,” Steve smiles sadly; “he doesn’t want to. And I don’t want to force him.”

“It takes time,” Nat says, putting a hand on his shoulder. He looks so miserable. “Trust me, it’s not that he doesn’t want to, it’s just that he’s got a lot to deal with before he feels like he can.”

“I hope so,” Steve sighs. “I’ve been writing a lot lately, y’know? Sam told me it’d do me good.”

“Oh yeah? What do you write about?”

Steve shrugs, suddenly self-conscious. “Stuff about him. How I feel. Stuff that I feel would help him remember, if he ever read them. It’s... weird. They’re letters, you know? Letters for him. Even though I know he’ll never read them.”

“Well,” Nat says. There’s a determined glint in her eyes. “Do you want him to?”

Steve blinks, dumbfounded. A smile slowly creeps across his lips.

* * *

Bucky’s found himself a nice little place in Bucharest. 

It’s not exactly pretty, but it’s home. It’s somewhere he can come back to when he’s injured, somewhere where he can write or scream or sleep freely in. It’s much more than he’s ever had in the past seventy years.

The first letter reaches him there, and he stares at it with disbelief. His hands shake and he’s afraid to open it for the first two hours, afraid it’s a trap and he’s been found by what’s left of Hydra. But then he decides that it’s been enough, and if he hasn’t died in the past seventy years he probably won’t die soon, and if he does, then it was time anyway.

His heart stops for a moment in his chest when he recognizes the handwriting.

_Bucky:_

_I wish there was an easier way to say this. It’s weird, because we were so close back in the day, do you remember? You were the only one I could always trust. I remember how frustrating it was that sometimes you could read me too well. You were always smiling before I cracked a joke, like you knew exactly where I was going with it. But that never stopped you from laughing anyway._

_The way people talks about us is always so sad, you know? And it breaks my heart — it breaks me because it’s not true. There might be seventy years of ice between us now, but that wasn’t always there. People didn’t get to see when our hearts used to beat at the same rhythm. And I wonder what you think about us — do you even remember? Or has it been lost forever, am I the last one to know?_

_Please tell me I’m not. _

_I don’t know where you are now. I don’t know what you’re doing or what you’re dealing with. I wish I could help you. I wish you’d let me. You might not remember, but we’ve always fought together: first in the streets, then the war. You were always there for me and we used to be kings of the world._

_Please know that I don’t want to pressure you. I don’t want to force you to do anything you don’t want to do. But I think that you want to remember. When I saw you the other day in Brooklyn, Bucky, I swear it made me smile for a whole week. Even if you disappeared right after. I’m sorry._

_I guess what I want to say is that I hope you’re okay. I hope that you know that I love you. Always have and always will. I hope that you know that whatever they made you do — it wasn’t you, Buck. And I know it’s easier said than done but sometimes it helps hearing it from another person. To me you’re the same, no matter what you’ve done. I want you to stay safe. I want you to find your peace and be happy, because you deserve it. I want you to remember that you’re still a person. I want you to remember to eat well, to sleep comfortably, to take care of yourself. I want you to tend your wounds, both the physical and mental ones. I want you to heal and treat yourself gently, because you deserve it. Doesn’t matter if you ever want to see me again or not. As long as you’re okay, I can live with that._

_I don’t know how you’re gonna react to this letter. If you don’t want me to do this again, just rip it and send the pieces back to me. I promise I’ll understand. I won’t look for you; but you have to understand me too. I had to give it a shot._

_Yours,_

_Steve._

Bucky’s blood boils. His eyes sting.

He’s so fucking angry he rips the letter in tiny little pieces and thinks about sending it back. _Please,_ he begs mentally, _just leave me alone._

The truth is, he just wants peace. He doesn’t want to be obligated to somebody. Steve says he’s the same to him, but he knows it’s not true. He can never be the same and once Steve notices, he’s going to be disappointed. Bucky has dealt with years of torture but he’s not sure he can deal with that. It’s better to keep it a memory. 

In the end, though, he doesn’t send the letter back. In the end, he spends the night pasting it back together and tucks it into his pocket.

* * *

Bucky leaves for a mission after a few days.

When he wakes up, there’s blood everywhere. A good amount of it is his, he realizes dizzily. He’s pretty sure he has a concussion, a broken leg and broken ribs from the bullets; and maybe some other wounds. 

He’s also pretty sure he could stand up nonetheless. Doesn’t know if he wants to, though, and then he remembers the paper hidden in one of his many pockets. It’s probably soaked in blood now, but he remembers _‘I want you to treat your wounds. I want you to heal.’_

In the end, it’s that what gives him the strength to stand up and go back to his little house in Bucharest.

* * *

_Bucky:_

_Do you remember that time back in the 30’s when you avoided me for like a week or so? I was freaking out — you were my only friend and I was afraid that you, too, had finally gotten sick of me. So I went to your house every day and tried to get you talk to me, but your sister or your ma always came up with these elaborate excuses until one day I felt like I was coming down with something again and Becca must’ve seen me looking so bad that she told me the truth. You went and fought with that guy who gave me a nosebleed when I told him he was a bully and a dumbass; but you didn’t think you’d be outnumbered like that. Four against one, they beat you up pretty bad and you didn’t want me to see the ugly, no matter how many times you’d seen me lying in bed barely able to catch my breath. You were always trying to protect me, and I appreciate it, Buck, like hell I do — but you don’t have to do it any longer. I know you’re not ready to come back and I don’t know if it’s because you don’t want me to see the ugly, but it doesn’t matter. Both my door and my arms are always open for you, no matter how you are now._

_I guess I just wanted to make that clear._

_Yours,_

_Steve._

* * *

Bucky takes his time to recover.

It takes longer than he expected and he’s been sleeping a lot, but in a way that’s okay because it helps him remember. He writes everything, both the good and the bad.

Winter is coming soon, and as it approaches, he dreams more and more about when Steve was tiny. It reminds him of himself right at that moment in his life, trapped in home, healing. And he finally starts getting why Steve was so intense all the time — it gets boring at times, and it gives you too much time to think.

It gets colder. The dreams change. He remembers flashes of the war, of a bigger Steve, the way he is now. He remembers how disappointed he felt when he found out he didn’t need to protect him anymore, but he liked to hide in his broad chest when they were alone in their tents, in the field. He liked that he didn’t have to worry about him getting sick all the time, so that was good, at least.

One night he remembers lips against lips, skin against skin. Two soldiers shivering from cold and arousal and his hand pressing against Steve’s little mouth when he whimpered too loud. He remembers tangled limbs and messy hair, love bites in places that won’t be visible when the uniform is on, scratches on a broad back.

He wakes up. He’s hard.

He doesn’t know what to do about it, so he lets it go away.

Another night the dream replays, but this time is different. There are art supplies on the floor and the body shivering against his is much smaller, much frail, but no less beautiful, no less passionate. There are paint stains on his face and hands and marks on his neck.

The bed is already wet when he wakes up.

It happens a third time, he wakes up hard after a dream where Steve rides him until they both come hard. This time he’s so hard that he wraps his hand around his shaft and starts pleasuring himself; but as soon as he does another memory hits him —beatings, cutting, cold water, castration.

Shame.

He’s not hard anymore.

It gets colder. The dreams change. He dreams of torture, cold showers, starvation and broken bones.

He writes everything down.

* * *

_Bucky:_

_Winter is coming and as usual, I can’t stop thinking about you. I always remember that time when you took too many jobs so you could give good presents to everyone. I think about those fancy color pencils you gave me even though you knew I was colorblind and you just told me to go with my instinct. I think about how you collapsed from exhaustion after helping your mom make Christmas dinner._

_It was the only time I saw you get sick and I couldn’t even take care of you because everyone, including you, were scared you might give it to me and my body wouldn’t be able to take it._

_It was humiliating, you know? I cried myself to sleep because I was so angry. And I felt like shit, too, because I was supposed to be happy. I couldn’t even enjoy the pencils._

_I think about every Christmas with your family after my ma died, I remember how you always gave me an extra blanket even if that meant you’d be sleeping cold. I remember you always telling me to wrap myself nicely before we went out to play in the snow._

_I remember how warm your lips always felt no matter how cold it was outside. I know I’m ancient even if I don’t look it, but this I remember like it hasn’t been a lifetime away. I dream about it often. You could always make feel warm._

_I’m sorry I wasn’t able to do the same for you. I’m sorry it never occurred to me to look for you in the snow — Christ, Buck, how could I be so stupid? I was so afraid, ever since I rescued you that time from that stupid table. You were there, but you were different, and I was afraid of my own fear, if that makes any sense at all. I wasn’t much afraid to die, and you know I’ve been close to many times. But I feared for what they did to you and I feared for the intensity of that feeling itself, even when I thought I’d forgotten about you. Don’t get me wrong — I can never. You’ll always be special for me, but at that time I was smitten with Peggy, you know. And I thought what we had before the war were just hormones until I got you back at a hand’s reach. It was when I understood that I’ll always love you. You’ll always be the first and the last, and even though I realize how much you mean to me, I was never good at getting the point across to you. I couldn’t even hold the thing I loved most in my life, and I guess that tells you a lot about myself._

_I guess I’m being sentimental. Maybe it’s just that I’m old. Maybe it’s just the time of the year. Maybe it’s just the fact that I keep seeing you everywhere. I see people pass in the streets and think ‘Wow, he walks just like Bucky.’ ‘He’s got the same chin.’ ‘Her hair curls just like his used to do in the summer, when it was hot and humid.’ But anyway, whatever the reason is — this is an apology letter. Even that day you left to war I was too busy trying so hard to prove myself a man that I forgot about the most important thing — to tell you that I love you. I don’t want to make the same mistake again._

_I love you. I hope that wherever you are, you never feel cold again. And I’m sorry for never being able to keep you warm._

_Merry Christmas,_

_Steve._

* * *

Winter goes by, then spring, then it’s summer.

Bucky’s starting to find out the pleasure in cooking and eating, again, slowly.

He likes plums. Likes their sweet taste. He likes working out, a lot, it makes up for all the calories he’s eating by re-discovering what he likes and what he doesn’t. Plus, when his body is too tired, it’s hard to think of Hydra. And in case worst comes to worst, he’ll be ready to fight. 

He’s also beginning to find pleasure in talking to people — not for information, not for a mission, just for the fun of it. He chats with the vendors at the market place. Romanian feels natural in his tongue already. People are starting to know him.

It’s slow, but it’s something.

Another day at the marketplace he stops on his tracks when familiar colors catch his eye. It’s a comic book about Captain America. “Special Edition,” the vendor tells him. Apparently, it’s a compilation of the very first comic numbers.

Bucky buys it.

He spends that night reading it. It’s funny and awkward — they’ve portrayed him as a kid, a sidekick like a Robin to a Batman. It makes him genuinely laugh and he finds himself surprised at the sound. It had been a long while since he’d forgotten what was funny.

It also brings him memories, the good kind. The kind of memories when they were little and he used to protect Steve. What would the fans of Captain America say if they knew the true story?

He doesn’t know the answer to that, but he’s delighted by the comic anyway. He keeps it close, under his pillow. It’s the closest he can be to Steve, anyway. It’s not much, but it does help him feel better.

* * *

Two years go by.

Bucky’s tired. 

He feels it in his bones. He’s got the strength and power to fight, but he’s not sure it’s what he wants to do any longer.

His body is different now. Thicker, more resistant. Defeating Hydra keeps getting easier. He knows too much about them and his body and mind are finally healing. And yet, he’s exhausted. Fighting, that’s what he’s always been doing. Ever since he was little he was fighting a battle to protect those he loved the most. And it made sense, but now, now it’s just bloodshed.

He’s really not sure how to feel about that. And he’s really not sure how to feel when he hears it in the news after destroying another Hydra base, the one he’s swore it’s his last one; that Captain America has been seriously injured after a mission with the Avengers. He’ll be okay, they all say, the super-serum will heal him. But that doesn’t make Bucky feel any better. 

He knows Steve will be fine. He just hates him when he does that, is all.

* * *

_Bucky:_

_These days I’ve been thinking of that time when you told me you wanted to go to the Grand Canyon after the war ended. You told me your old man said it puts everything into perspective._

_Well let me tell you something. I haven’t been there, but if there’s something that puts everything into perspective, it’s the certainty of death._

_I don’t know if you watch the news. I don’t know if you care. If you do, then you probably already know this. The other day I almost die during a mission. And it got me thinking of the coward I’ve been, because this is not the first time I’m face to face with death, and all those times I could just think about you and my ma. And I never got to tell any of you how special you were to me. My ma is long gone, but I can still right my mistake with you, even if it’s just by this stupid letter._

_You are my hero, James Buchanan Barnes._

_I looked up to you since the first time you stood up for me against the bullies in the streets. You were always my anchor, someone I could lean against when I was beat up or coming down with something. You were always so strong and brave; but at the same time caring and sensitive; funny and charming. And you were always there. You were always such a constant in my life that I took you for granted. Even when you left to war I didn’t think that much of it because you were meant to come back. You were strong and smart and skillful, and trust me when I tell you that if someone asked me I would’ve bet my life that you could beat even Hitler._

_I guess it never crossed my mind that even you could be defeated. And I guess it never crossed my mind that I’d have to spend so much of my life without you, living off memories. But I don’t care — I don’t care if I’m Captain America now, I’ll drop that shield every time for you. I don’t care if I’m everyone’s hero or if people ask for my autograph or make exhibits about me. It’s you, Bucky. You’re the real hero. The one that’s always believed in me when no one but my ma did, the one that gives me strength in my weakest moments. And you should know that._

_Yours,_

_Steve._

_P.S. I hope you make it to the Grand Canyon someday, if you haven’t been there already._

* * *

Steve recovers; and he won’t tell anyone about this, not even write it in his letters to Bucky, but sometimes he wishes he didn’t. 

When they ask him how’s he feeling, he just says he’s tired.

It’s not far from the truth, really. He’s exhausted. Fighting, that’s what he’s always been doing. Ever since he was little he was fighting a battle for survival against a body that wouldn’t cooperate with him. And honest to God? He never expected to live long. Never really thought he could make it past 16, then 20, then 25. And now he’s outlived most people he knew from the 40’s. He’ll probably outlive most of the Avengers, too, if he doesn’t die in the field someday.

He’s really not sure how to feel about that.

* * *

A few years pass.

He outlives Peggy, too.

* * *

_Bucky:_

_I’m sorry I haven’t written you in so long. It’s been just hard._

_I’ve been getting therapy, at last. Can’t say to you that it’s been easy, but I’m getting there. Today’s a bad day though, I must admit. And I just can’t shake my mind of you — do you get these days often, still?_

_I just — I can’t find any meaning to this anymore. And I don’t like to admit this, swore a few years ago that I would tell no one about it, not even you, but I keep getting worse and worse and my therapist says I shouldn’t bottle up so much stuff, so I guess I just have to tell you, baby. Remember when we turned sixteen? I never told anyone this, darling, but I was pretty sure I wasn’t gonna make it to the end of that year. I got a little more reckless than usual, tried to live to the fullest despite the shortcomings of my body._

_It was the year I kissed you for the first time. _

_It was also the first time you shoved me, the first time I’d seen you so angry. You left me there standing like a fool in the middle of an alley and I thought I’d screwed up our friendship forever. But you couldn’t get through it for more than a day and the next evening you were knocking at my door and telling me to ride the Cyclone with you._

_I threw up. You moved my hair away from my forehead and held me, and my stomach turned with such force at the touch that I threw up again. You stayed the night to make sure I was okay. I couldn’t sleep and oh surprise – you couldn’t sleep either. I asked you about the kiss and you said we shouldn’t talk about it, that it wasn’t something men did. That we should forget about it, but I couldn’t._

_The next day you arrived at my home after your job with a date for both of us. We went to a diner and you put your arm around her, but you hid your other hand under the table and held mine._

_I almost choke on my food. Then I understood._

_You weren’t angry, nor disgusted. You were just scared. Poor Bucky, you’ve always been so scared, haven’t you?_

_You used to kiss me in the ugliest city spots where no one would catch us. I wanted to kiss you all the time. When the feeling surpassed me, I used to steal little pecks from your lips when no one was looking our way. You always pushed me aside, looked around, said I was being too foolish. Said it could turn the whole world against us — well, guess what, baby. They are against us, now. You and me, we have enough enemies to last us until the ends of this Earth. And you should be scared, but not of them. I’ll fight anyone who tries to put a hand on you. I’d become a criminal. I don’t care if turns all the nations in the world against me. We’ve always known how to deal with enemies, no matter how big they are._

_But you’ve got to give me a sign, love._

_I know I’ve told you many times that I don’t want you to come back unless you want to, and it’s true. But you can’t expect me to keep harboring these feelings forever. It’s exhausting, Buck, and I feel old and at my limits. I feel like I’m burnt from longing, and I feel like there’s nothing left in me but ashes and old bones._

_Listen, Buck. I’ll fight for you always. I’ll love you forever. And I’ll write you and think about you until the day I die, as long as I know there is hope. All I’m asking for is for you to tell me if you’ve moved on. If you don’t want to know about me. I want you to be happy. It doesn’t have to be with me. But if there’s a slight chance you might still care about me, then please, just give me a sign. As small as it might be. Just so I know that I’m not fighting for a lost cause._

_Yours,_

_Steve._

* * *

Within the span of a week, Steve receives a postcard. It’s got the Grand Canyon on front. On the back it just reads:

_‘I’m sorry.’_

Steve smiles. Somehow, that’s enough.

* * *

Another year passes. It turns into two. Then five. Clint’s got a family, Tony and Pepper are expecting. Thor’s visits are getting sparer and sparer, for he has a kingdom to reign with his brother. They’re finally making it work. They all are.

And Steve’s still the same. Nothing has changed, and even his outward appearance remains. He’s begun to realize — it’s not that noticeable, but there are little expression marks, small wrinkles, gray hairs in the other Avengers.

He still looks like not a day has passed after he was thawed.

It’s... funny. They don’t see each other as often as they used to, not all of them.

There are new ones, also: Wanda, Vision, Peter, Carol, more of them. It feels like the responsibility is slowly shifting.

Steve spends his life waiting, working out, drawing, writing letters that never get replied to. But he’s hopeful. He’ll always be.

Natasha keeps sending the letters, even though she’s also trying to make him move on. She tries to get him out of the house, to set him up on dates. And maybe he agrees sometimes just so she lays off a bit. But it never works. He keeps finding Bucky in all the little places, in all people.

He just hopes he’s okay. Meanwhile, he’ll keep his memory alive in his drawings—

* * *

_Bucky:_

_Today it hit me._

_It’s been so long, Buck. I miss you like crazy. I think I’m gonna lose it._

_I tried sketching you today, like in the old days, like always — somehow you just keep appearing in my drawings all the time. But today it came all wrong, and it was so weird, because I close my eyes and I can see you so clearly, but it’s like my hand has forgotten how you were, what it was like to touch you. And it hurt me — hurt me the fact that I had to use reference when I had you memorized for so long. Hurt me to think that there are so few pictures of you scattered in museums and history books; that those few pictures people know might be not even close to what you look like now. That maybe you’re just a memory I’m too stubborn to let go of._

_They all tell me to move on. You’re not coming back and I should accept it, but how can I? I might not remember you like I used to, but I remember enough. I remember enough good things about you to last me a lifetime, whatever that means for me. I remember the way you cried so easily, the way you scrunched your cute little nose when I made you laugh with some snarky comment; the lovely little double chin and the crows feet that sometimes made you a little insecure even though you turned the heads of everyone when you walked into a room. But most of all I remember the delicacy with how you touched my forehead when I was burning in fever — burning for you. _ _I remember how you learned to braid hair just so you could braid Becca’s, and how no matter how hard your shift at the docks was, you always helped your ma make dinner._

_I remember your gentle heart, and somehow, that’s all that matters._

_Yours,_

_Steve._

* * *

Steve’s lost count of how many years have passed.

* * *

It’s the year 2040 when Steve Rogers announces he’s retiring. The news are everywhere.

Bucky thinks it’s a wise choice — he’s chosen the same, many years ago. He’s chosen to leave the bloodshed and the missions and the action behind and has made a life in his little home in Romania. He doesn’t have friends, but sometimes his acquaintances and neighbors come over to have dinner. They all think he’s a little weird — they know he’s a vet, so they don’t bother him much, don’t ask him unnecessary questions. They also think he’s a writer, for there are many notebooks in his otherwise empty apartment. Notebooks and comic books.

He’s lonely, but that’s okay. He’s free and he likes his little life, safe, eating and working out and writing. Healing. 

It doesn’t surprise him how much time Steve endured mission after mission — no matter what one of his letters said many years ago, he had a fire within himself that couldn’t be turned off by anything. But even people like him need to rest some time.

Bucky re-reads all his comics that night, in honor of Steve’s career. 

He gets another letter the next day.

* * *

_Bucky:_

_I guess that when this letter reaches you, you’ll already have heard the news._

_I’m retiring. It’s weird. It feels like everything it’s coming to an end and at this point, I’m not sure if it’s a good thing or a bad thing. Don’t get me wrong — it’s mostly okay. I’m tired. They all know and they’ve been telling me for the last twenty years to retire and get a life. I know they’ll be okay. I’m just not sure of what’s the point of everything anymore._

_I guess I’m just trying to say that I miss you. And that I know you’ll hear the news, but I wanted to tell you myself anyway ‘cause I’m nice like that and I love you too much. You haven’t forgotten, have you? I hope not._

_I have started seeing things that I didn’t want to see before. Old man’s musings, I suppose. Like the way Tony’s daughter is growing and she looks more and more like him every day. The way his hair has more grays every time. The way the new Avengers are not kids anymore, but adults of their own and they’re doing great. _ _The way the city is changing faster and faster every day; or the way people have started talking about me and us and our times in the war like it’s something obsolete that doesn’t matter anymore, when for me it feels like it was yesterday._

_I mean — it’s kind of cool, y’know? To see the city change for good. The other day I saw these two guys on the subway holding hands, rings in their hands, and no one batted an eye. I got a little emotional, I have to admit. I would’ve liked that for us._

_I like the way the Avengers have learned to fight together and to enjoy each other’s company despite our differences. They’re pretty cool and they’re growing, too. It’s cool to see them change and mature as well, but sometimes it makes me feel too lonely when I have no one to go back to._

_The thing is that I’m glad. I’m glad and I’m proud of the path the world is taking, and I know they don’t need an old man like me anymore, but it makes me feel like I’ve got no purpose. I know — it’s been worth it, and I should be proud. Plus, I get to spend the whole day with my art now, getting the supplies and the classes I never had the chance back then. It’s quite alright, and I don’t want you to worry. It’s just that time passes so quickly, more so for people like us, quickly and slowly at the same time, and this is too recently, so please forgive me if I sound a little sad. I don’t mean to worry you, I’ll be fine._

_Everything’s changing but there’s one thing that remains: I still think about you. All the time, maybe now even more so. And I want you to come back — God, you don’t know how badly. I pray for it every night, like my ma taught me, and you know I’ve never been very religious. But you’ve been forced into so many things in your life, Bucky, I don’t want this to be another. I want you to come back on your own terms, when you feel ready to, because you want to. Doesn’t matter if it takes you a year more or a lifetime. Doesn’t even matter if you don’t come back at all, if you don’t want to, but if there’s a slight chance you do, just know that I’ll be here. I’ve come to realize that apparently, I’ll still be around for a good, long while, so take all the time you need._

_We have forever, my darling. I’ll be waiting for you._

_Yours,_

_Steve._

* * *

He falls asleep.

He dreams of the first time he’d killed anybody.

It had been during the war — Steve wasn’t there yet. Bucky had shot the guy straight to the heart. 

He hadn’t felt much when he saw him fall. Hadn’t thought much about it. It was until the night fell, when he was drinking and celebrating with the Commandos after a successful operation when it hit him and his hands started shaking so bad he dropped his drink.

“Jeez, Sarge, are you okay?”

He hadn’t been able to breathe. They took him to their unit’s doctor and he told them it was a panic attack. He snapped out of it eventually, but still he hadn’t been able to sleep that night at all. 

(Or the next ones, for the record.)

A Nazi was still a person and Bucky had killed somebody. He was a soldier — this he was supposed to do. It wasn’t even considered a sin to kill in war — not that he cared anyway. So why was he getting all worked up?

The truth is that he could’ve make up all the excuses he wanted. That didn’t change what he’d done, and didn’t change the fact that he was going to keep doing it. And it scared him. Scared him to think he was going to get too good, too comfortable at killing. 

But then he thought of family: his ma, his pa, Becca.

Steve.

It was okay. He could take the fall for them. He didn’t like to become this, but if it was the sacrifice he’d have to make for them to sleep safe and sound, he’d do it gladly.

He wasn’t killing just because. He wasn’t even killing because his country forced him to. He was killing to protect his loved ones. And while that didn’t make it exactly a noble action or worthy of praise, it was enough to get him through it.

So he’d forgiven himself and became one hell of a sniper.

And now he was just a man who had chosen not to fight anymore — the wars weren’t worth it when it wasn’t about protecting who you cared for. He’d been broken and used, and he’d done terrible things, but he’d also found his way out of it. He thought, as he woke up in the dark with tears in his eyes, of what his ma or pa or Becca would’ve said had he came back from the war. Would they have been happy? Would they have been proud?

He thinks he owes them a visit. He doesn’t know where they are buried, but he knows someone who does.

And so he thinks, _Stevie_. He never looked at him differently, not even when Bucky almost killed him. And he’d written letter after letter assuring him that he didn’t think any less of him.

He said he was his hero. And heroes were supposed to be brave, weren’t they?

Bucky didn’t know if he would ever be okay, but he knew something — he owed this one to two little guys from Brooklyn: Steve and himself.

* * *

Bucky has been through seventy years of torture and other thirty years of getting past that hell, and he thinks that somehow all his life has lead exactly to this moment. 

The sun is setting. He’s waiting outside an apartment building in Brooklyn, the one that has a commemorative plaque on it; and he thinks that only artists like Steve can be sentimental like that. A flash of a memory hits him —they’re lying naked together in their tents, and he’s angry because he’s discovered Steve’s compass; until Steve carefully removes Peggy’s picture to reveal one of Bucky.

_‘Keep it secret,’_ he tells him against Bucky’s skin. As if he needs to. As if they don’t share a life of secrets already, secrets between giggles and tears that only them will ever know.

Bucky smiles and rings the door. There comes a voice from the intercom, a voice he hasn’t heard in years but he’ll never be able to forget:

“Hello?” 

He’d thought he’d be too nervous to talk, but his body betrays him before he even processes it. “Stevie,” he blurts. 

There’s a stunned silence, and then...

“_OhmyGod._ Bucky?”

Bucky chuckles nervously. “Who else would it be, punk?”

Steve’s freaking out. “F-fuck... come up. Or don’t, I can come down if you prefer that—“

“I’ll come up, okay? But you have to open the door first.”

“Oh. Of course.”

Steve opens the door for him. Bucky takes the stairs. 

It’s the weirdest thing, knowing he’ll be meeting Steve — he feels too old and too young all at once, like he’s been carrying so much baggage but at the same time, he’s lightheaded.

When he gets there, Steve’s already waiting at the doorframe, too impatient. He looks exactly the same and it makes Bucky smile. 

He doesn’t know who takes the first step —maybe they both do, they’re connected like that— but they’re already hugging at the sight of each other. He feels like he could die right there, his heart bursting with happiness. Steve buries his head on his shoulder and Bucky smells his hair.

It’s everything.

He doesn’t know how much time they spend like that, but then again time is a concept that doesn’t make sense for people like them anyway. They’re both shaking. When they break away, they’re both teary-eyed. 

“Jesus,” Steve laughs through his tears. “Wanna come in?” 

The knot in Bucky’s throat is too big, so he just laughs back and nods.

* * *

Bucky’s tired after a lifetime of guilt and shame, and he’s also jet-lagged, so he sleeps in Steve’s bed. Steve watches him — he’s tired too, but he’s too afraid that Bucky will disappear if he falls asleep, like it was just a dream. Plus, Steve is starved. He doesn’t want to miss a moment.

Bucky sleeps — he sleeps until morning, like a kid after school that has finished his homework and doesn’t know a thing about war; that has nothing to worry about. His mouth’s open, hair in disarray and drool on the pillows. He’s snoring softly, and Steve thinks he’s never been so happy in his life — what a life. He thinks about the good old days, so long ago, when he would wake up after breaking a fever and Bucky would be there next to him, sleeping from exhaustion. Steve thinks about how his hand always itched to reach out when he was so close; how he wanted to touch his cheek and caress his hair, but he would always restrain himself because that wasn’t what men did.

He can do it now, so he indulges himself.

Bucky wakes up slowly. He smiles groggily.

“Hey, punk. Five more minutes.”

Steve chuckles sweetly. “Okay.”

Bucky closes his eyes again. Steve lets him sleep and gets up to make breakfast. As he does, he can’t hold back his smile. Bucky is in his bed. It’s been more than a hundred years. And somehow, it feels like no time has passed at all.

* * *

_end._


End file.
